Andith Anthology
by Tarlea
Summary: A series of one-shots and drabbles about my favorite Downton couple, Anthony and Edith. All ratings possible.
1. Ice Cream Sunday

Prompts: Ice Cream, and Edith's family makes her feel worthless (which I kinda departed from).

Thanks to QueenLovett and LadyStrallan.

**Ice Cream Sunday**

Edith slumped back against her pillows, trying to ignore the slight aching in her back and the feeling of exhaustion that was threatening to drag her into yet another nap. She felt as though she had done nothing but sleep lately. And eat. And go to the bathroom every twenty minutes. And submit to Dr. Clarkson's daily checkup. After Sybil, she couldn't blame the good doctor, Anthony, or her parents—though in their case she couldn't help thinking they were more concerned with a healthy grandchild than for her.

She sighed and reached for her book. She had just cracked it open when her husband's cheerful, if somewhat weary, face appeared in the doorway.

"Good afternoon, my darling," he greeted her, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning to kiss her. "And how are you two this afternoon?"

Edith yawned. "Oh we are just fine. And how is papa?"

"He has had enough of mortgages and mold for one day," he sighed.

Anthony spied the rather large and milky bowl on her bed stand and chuckled.

"More ice cream my dear?" he teased.

She grinned sheepishly. "I know. I just can't seem to get enough of the stuff. Mary's been a _real dear_ about that," she added sarcastically.

"Oh, nevermind Mary," Anthony countered.

"I suppose some things are destined. Mary was a stunning mother to be—and I've got feet the size of hams and am shaping up to be the prize hog myself,"

"My darling," Anthony soothed, placing a hand on her swollen belly. His eyes assumed a familiar glazed adoration—something between exultation and tears—a look that had appeared just as soon as she'd told him she was expecting a little Strallan and that was now shed upon her daily. "You are truly beautiful," his voice was full. "If you only knew….To think that, in there right now…"

"But it's not like I have anything to do with that. All I have to do is get fat. The rest takes care of itself," Edith stated matter-of-factly.

He gave a small laugh, kissing her again, his touch growing gradually more sensual. For along with adoration of her motherhood came inevitably a desire to create yet another little stranger.

"My dear, I'm sorry but I simply couldn't. Besides, you know what the doctor said," Edith demurred, apologetically.

Anthony groaned. "I know." He fell back on the bed with an air of melodrama, "I think I'll get some ice cream myself."

Edith laughed and snuggled down against him. "How about a nap, instead?" she suggested, yawning again.

"Well, I suppose that'll do," he agreed lovingly.

It didn't take long for sleep to overcome father and mother, yet before Edith slipped from consciousness she thought to herself that she would never let her family push this baby aside as they had her. She would spare her child all that pain and fight for it as she had never quite fought for herself. She would be cherished, and valued, and loved.

XXXXX

"Margaret!" Edith called, sweeping her torch through the carefully trimmed hedge, her eyes scanning for a small shoe or a telltale glimpse of a golden curl.

On the other side of garden, Anthony's tall form stooped, looking under benches and around coiffed trees, "Margaret!" He repeated her entreaty.

And then he heard it. A stifled sob coming from behind the large statue of Athena which formed the corner of Locksley's stately garden.

He edged himself around the corner of the statue to spy his daughter, hands clenched around her knees, her head bowed and sobbing.

"Hey sweetheart," he said lightly, his body flooding with relief. "Won't you come out and tell me what's wrong?"

Margaret snuffed loudly and gave a few more sobs.

"You mother and I have been worried about you. And your dinner has gone cold, I'm afraid."

The girl had stopped crying, but she didn't look up. Gently, Anthony gathered his gangly seven year old in his long arms and carried her to a nearby bench. Edith ceased her searching and came to join them, throwing her arms around her daughter and kissing her fiercely.

"Oh Margaret! You had me so worried! Why would you run off and hide like that?"

Margaret buried her heard in her mother's bosom and murmured mournfully. "He said I should run away. He said you would be happier if I were gone."

Edith, heartbroken that her daughter could ever think such a thing, gave Anthony a stricken look.

"Margaret sweetheart, who said?" he asked the woeful child, also struggling against his taut heartstrings.

"George," she wailed into her mother's chest.

Edith scowled. Of course it was George. George, who was four years older than Margaret, and who had been over to visit after church with his mother—had turned into a chip off the old block. A chip off his mother's-that was. A fine looking boy with Mary's dark locks Matthew's wide smile, he could be perfectly charming when he wanted to be; which lately was when he wanted to get his own way. He was realizing what his charisma would let him get away with, both with the girls at school and at home. As Mary's only son and the heir of Downton, he was, as the Dowager Countess colorfully but accurately put it "getting more self-important than a peacock in pajamas."

He was particularly superior with his cousins.

"What else did cousin George say?" Edith asked, a familiar pained fury tightening her words.

"He said that I didn't behave like a lady and that I was always untidy and spent too much time reading and that if I didn't shape up I wouldn't have any friends once I moved to upper school. He said that you and Daddy were ashamed of me and that you told Aunt Mary that I was driving you mad and that I should just run away to save you the trouble of bothering with me and-and- that—" the heartbroken sobs were violently overwhelming her speech by now, "you'd be much happier without me."

Margaret then surrendered to great wailing sobs as Edith clung to her and kissed her and both parents tried to assure her that what her cousin had said couldn't be further from the truth.

Finally, Margaret cried herself out, quieting to sniffles and hiccups.

"My darling girl," Edith looked into her daughter's eyes—expressive blue pools which she had inherited from her father—"you are the most precious thing in my life. I couldn't bear losing you. And your father and I are _very_ proud of you. You just worry about being you, and we will always love you for it."

"And don't pay any attention to the horrid things your cousin George says," added Anthony.

Margaret nodded and crawled into her father's lap to hug him. He wrapped his arms around her and stood up. "That's my girl," he said fondly, as the little head settled comfortably on his shoulder.

"You know, "Anthony started as they moved to the house, "all your dinner got quite cold while you were out there hiding. But it won't matter that your dessert is cold."

Margaret jerked head from her father's shoulder so she could look him in his twinkling eyes. "Ice cream!" she gasped excitedly, "what kind?"

"Raspberry!" Edith announced, in the same hushed tones.

"Oh Daddy," Margaret began, the sorrow leaving her face as her mouth curved into a sly smile, "since my dinner is already cold, don't you think I might as well skip straight to dessert for tonight?"

And both Edith and Anthony laughed heartily as the family passed from the dim night into the warm light of the drawing room.

XXXXX


	2. Between the Boxwoods

Prompt: Edith's family makes her feel worthless and Anthony is there to comfort her.

For LadyStrallan.

**Between the Boxwoods**

Ruth worked silently as she put the finishing touches on her mistress's hair. She had learned quickly that with Lady Edith there were times when she chatted companionably, and times when she sat, as she did now, in contemplative silence. Usually the silence meant that the young journalist was mentally composing her next column, but tonight there was definitely distress in those hazel eyes. Anna had known the girls for years, and perhaps she could have offered the kind of comfort that the second Crawley daughter sought, but as Ruth had only been dressing her charge for a little over a year, she finished her work in silence and shook her head sadly to herself once she was safely on the other side of the bedroom door.

The family were going to an Autumn ball, being given by some old family friends in Helmsley, and in order to get there in good time they had to dress and leave before sundown. Edith had been looking forward to the ball, once an annual tradition for the Duncombes, but one that they had forgone since the war, in which they had lost their son, Giles. However, as their youngest daughter had recently come out, the family had revived the tradition as yet another opportunity for her to dance with as many eligible men as possible. A highlight of the festivities was a large boxwood maze in the backyard which an eccentric matron of the house had established during the reign of Victoria, and which a team of gardeners carefully tended year-round.

Edith _had_ been looking forward to the ball. Yet now as she descended the steps to join her family, she felt she wanted nothing less than to spend an hour in a car with anyone bearing the Crawley name. Least of all her mother, sister, and grandmother. Yet, as she always did, she swallowed the sting and prepared herself for the evening to come.

For the drive, Edith maneuvered to claim a seat in the car with her father and Tom, and the two men soon fell into estate conversation, leaving Edith to her thoughts. As the car sped towards Helmsley, Edith didn't remark as she usually would on the loveliness of Yorkshire countryside in its autumn colors. All she could do was replay the painful scene she had overheard earlier that afternoon.

She'd been taking a walk after lunch, delighting in the freshness of the mild October afternoon, taking advantage of the last burst of summer warmth before the frost. She was about to finish her walk, passing beneath the morning room window to turn indoors, when the sound of her name made her stop.

"…talk about Edith," her grandmother was pronouncing.

"Edith?" Her mother's voice had questioned.

"My dear, Rosamund tells me she's been doing more on these trips to London than simply posting her column," the dowager countess accused.

"You mean Gregson?" Lady Grantham guessed. "Well, he isn't such a bad sort."

"If you like that nosy, newspaper type," Mary opined disdainfully, conveniently forgetting that she had once been engaged to newspaperman Richard Carlisle.

"Well, that isn't the worst of it," the dowager hinted darkly. "Rosamund tells me the fellow's _married_!"

"Married!" Cora exclaimed. "Surely Edith can't know!"

"Oh please, Mama," Mary scoffed. "Of course she knows."

The three women sat a moment as they processed the shock. Outside the window, Edith waited, dreading the inevitable scolding that would come to her as soon as her parents could corner her.

"Oh dear," Lady Grantham said at last.

"Really, you ought to have let her marry old Strallan," Mary sneered. "At least it's better than becoming the editor's mistress."

If Edith had been watching she'd have seen the scandalized look her mother fixed upon her older sister at the word "mistress."

"Cora," the dowager recalled her, "you can't deny that it has been almost two years since Sir Anthony, and Edith hasn't had any offers."

"How can I find her a husband, when she's always writing and training into London every other week?" Cora said in harassed tone.

"The trouble is that writing of hers, terribly modern," the dowager declared anxiously.

"The trouble is it's _Edith_" Mary retorted.

"Oh Mary, you are hardly being helpful," Lady Grantham snapped. "Poor Edith, she's never been the easy one," she sighed a moment later. "Perhaps we should raise her dowry. I'll talk to Robert about it."

"Good," the dowager agreed. "And meanwhile we'll try to snatch some of those bachelors away from Kitty Duncombe tonight."

"Yes, we'll have to ask some to stay…." Cora's voice had piped in, enthusiastically, but Edith hadn't waited to hear anymore.

She'd turned from the house and walked as fast as she could, the old hurt and anger and self-loathing crashing down upon her. As always, her family _blamed_ her for everything they didn't like or understand about her. How dare she be so difficult? How dare she be plain and independent? How dare she aspire to anything other than marriage and babies? How dare she be bad at husband-catching, and coming to terms with that fact, how dare she do something that she _was_ good at and something that made her happy? Come to think of it, how dare she be happy? How dare she have any wants or opinions that did not contribute to comfort and happiness of her family?

Edith had walked until the pangs of rejection and injustice had stilled, and then stormed up to her room to change.

Now, as she recalled the scene, she felt the lump rising again in her throat and the tears burning behind her eyes. Would they _never_ see?

"Edith?" Tom broke into her thoughts, "Are ya alright?"

"Yes, fine," Edith replied, willing her face to relax. "It looks like we're almost there," she said, glancing out the window, and the conversation turned to what delights were in store for them in the coming hours.

XXXXX

Later, after several glasses of fine spiced cider and a handsome dinner filled with seasonal delectations, the dancing began. True to her word, the dowager countess shoved several of the single men into her granddaughter's arms. Edith danced, but the sting of the afternoon had not worn off, and she didn't even try to be engaging. _Why bother?_ A small voice in her head kept repeating. Occasional glimpses of her grandmother's anxious gaze and Mary's superior smirk didn't help. And after the fifth gentleman stiffly thanked her for the dance and made straight for the cider, she couldn't bear it anymore. Snatching up her wrap, she sped through the large ballroom windows and out into the cool night.

She wandered across the lawn, littered with a few party guests, the trees festooned with bright orange lanterns and flowers. A roped path led from the house into the maze, similarly decorated, and Edith marched straight for it, hoping to lose herself where none of her family could find her.

As she passed through the twisting hedges, paying no heed to which way she was going, she was vaguely aware of cozy couples taking advantage of the maze's many hidden corners. She shivered in the chill, content to drift and lose herself in the all too familiar ache of self-pity. She came around a corner, her mind a constant stream of insults, and failed to notice yet another figure seated on the stone bench.

"Lady Edith."

The familiar voice clutched at her already constricted heart. For a moment she stood, frozen to the spot. Then she gave an involuntary sob and prepared to move on.

"Edith, wait—" it was blurted, but the urgency in the voice made her turn.

And there, sitting on the bench in the glow of an orange lantern was Sir Anthony Strallan. Her heart raced as her starved eyes gazed full on the cherished face and features of the man for whom (though she had tried vainly to convince her heart otherwise) she had longed every day since he'd left her at the altar. Anthony looked to be doing the same, and for a moment the two stood, happy to merely to gawk at one another.

On the other side of the boxwood wall, someone laughed. Anthony blinked.

"Won't you sit down?" he uttered.

Edith hesitated for a moment, but she had had such an afternoon battling her emotions that she decided she was too weary to struggle anymore. She went and sat next to him.

A moment passed. Edith watched one of the orange lanterns swaying slightly in the breeze, thinking how good it felt just to be near Anthony, even if they didn't speak.

"Are you enjoying your evening?" Anthony inquired, more than just politeness in his tone. He truly wanted to know that she was happy.

"Not very much," Edith admitted, frankly. She shrugged a little. "I used to love this ball. In here especially. Papa and Duncombe are old friends, so we used to come here when I was a little girl."

Anthony gave an awkward half-smile, eager to be conversing on safe subjects with the woman he had jilted.

Edith continued listlessly. "I got lost in here once. Mary was supposed to come with me, but instead she dared me to come in alone." Her voice filled with scorn. "It took an hour for anyone to discover I was missing."

In the silence that followed, faint strains of music were wafting from the ballroom into the night.

"Would you care to dance?" Anthony asked lamely.

Without thinking, Edith stood and allowed him to take her in his arm. The song was a modern jazz tune, and they danced in the modern style, closer and more intimately than ever before. Edith found that looking deep into Anthony's eyes was too much to bear, and so she leaned in her cheek finding Anthony's, their bodies swaying slowly together, perfectly harmonious. The hopeless longing possessed Edith—how she wanted this man, and how she wanted him to want her.

Anthony was so lost in the simple ecstasies of holding his beloved in his arms, breathing in the nearness of her, almost tasting the soft warm curve of her neck…that he didn't register at once the wetness against his own cheek that betrayed the tears Edith could no longer hold back. Once begun, the avalanche of emotions overcame Edith. The sharp stabs of that afternoon, the heartache and loneliness of losing Anthony and of all the years before… And suddenly she was crying, weeping like a little girl.

Anthony felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He could never bear Edith to cry. He caught up her trembling hand in his own strong one, bringing it to his lips and kissing her fingers gently.

"Edith, my sweet one, don't cry, please," he pleaded, clutching her to his chest, feeling her hot tears staining his jacket as her piteous weeping continued. Croaking through the lump that had risen in his own throat, Anthony repeated his entreaties,unconsciously pressing insistent kisses into her perfumed hair…against her temples…and cheeks…and lips.

Before either knew what had happened, they were locked in a deep, teary kiss. Edith's hands rose involuntarily to curl around his shoulders, while his arm tightened to pull her even closer. Anthony found he couldn't break away—the kiss full of every ounce of love and tenderness and apology and longing he had wanted to show Edith in those months since he had foolishly let her go. He kissed her again and again, eager to banish every painful memory forever.

"Oh my darling, my _darling_!" he gasped when he finally tore his lips from hers, still holding her in a crushing embrace.

She laughed a little shakily, blinking the last few tears from her eyes and nuzzling into his neck.

"Well, you _have_ been busy."

Edith felt the elation drain from her chest in an instant. The couple parted, to find Mary's cold, supercilious smirk bathing them with disdain.

She addressed herself to Edith. "Granny is asking for you. We thought perhaps you'd got lost again," she drawled, cruelly recalling the traumatic incident of their youth.

Edith was about to reply, when she heard Anthony's voice addressing her sister.

"Lady Mary," he said in a steady, seething voice, "You may inform the dowager countess that Edith has not been lost. She has been with me. I happen to enjoy her company. Immensely. I cannot say the same for yours. Kindly remove yourself _at once_."

Mary went pale in astonishment, but she said nothing, turned on her heel, and left.

"Oh," Edith breathed. "You probably shouldn't have done that," she warned.

"Why not? I've wanted to say such things to her for a long time."

Edith sighed, allowing him to slide his arm around her waist. "It's been hard for her lately. It was only a year ago last month that Matthew died."

"Is that any excuse for her to treat my wife like a punching bag?" Anthony almost snarled.

"Oh, she's been fairly horrible to everyo-Your wife?" Edith asked warily, catching on a bit late.

He gave another half-smile, glancing sideways at her. "If you'll have me," he replied. "I know I don't deserve a second chance, but if you knew how much I've hated myself for….for being such a weak old fool..."

Edith smiled, shaking her head a little. "Oh dear, if you're going to talk like that, perhaps you'd better just kiss me."

And finding this a sound suggestion, he did.

XXXXX

A/N: I keep writing reconciliations, I know, but it's what I'd so like to see! This scene came to me very clearly—even exact phrases—last night at 4:30. I forced myself back to sleep and have been waiting all day to jot it down!


	3. Too Many Mornings

A/N: All credit to master Sondheim for this one, from whom I have lovingly stolen the plot of _Follies_. Do yourself a favor, look up the song and listen to it. Thanks for all the lovely support!

Rating: M

**Too Many Mornings**

XXXXX

_Too many mornings_

_Waking and pretending I reach for you,_

_Thousands of mornings_

_Dreaming of my girl._

_All that time wasted,_

_Merely passing through,_

_Time I could have spent_

_So content_

_Wasting time with you._

_XXXXX_

Anthony woke to find that he had slept. He wasn't exactly certain how he had survived the agonizing hours since he'd wrenched himself from the Edith's side. He remembered leaving the church, and then his world had gone numb. He had told himself he was prepared for the ramifications of his decision, and yet he could not have prepared himself for the aching loneliness, the intense self-loathing, and the guilt that pierced anew every time he remembered the heartbreak in Edith's eyes. Worse than that were the dreams of what might have been. He'd spent a wretched night with generous amounts of brandy—sitting awake, drowning in wave after wave of utter despair and bitter regret. He hadn't remembered falling asleep.

The light from the windows told him it was morning. What should have been his wedding morning. Edith should have been there with him, her warm body only a breath away, sleeping soundly after a night…such a night…the night he had dreamt of and longed for for years. He should now be caressing her gently awake, gazing deep into her dazzling eyes, kissing her sweet lips…watching the morning light catch in her hair and painting the subtle curves of her naked form… But as he reached out, the bed was empty. As it would always be. Anthony turned into his pillow and wept.

XXXXX

_Too many mornings_

_Wishing that the room might be filled with you._

_Morning to morning,_

_Turning into days._

_All the days that I thought would never end,_

_All the nights with another day to spend._

_XXXXX_

Days, weeks, soon months, passed. Months of mornings like that first one, after lonely nights of torturous desire. Nights when he could almost imagine Edith standing in the doorway, a coy smile playing on her lips and desperate desire burning in her eyes, ready to come to his bed, wanting him the way he wanted her…and _his_…all his…as he was hers. Some mornings he could swear when he opened his he'd find a cluster of blonde curls just below his chin, Edith's sweet breath puffing against his chest and his arm tucked around her slender waist. And then the reality would break upon him—a cold, empty bed, and a cold, empty life.

One morning, about a year after the almost-wedding, Sir Anthony's valet found his master not in his bedroom, but in the library. Anthony's tall frame was stretched awkwardly across the sofa, and the floor and tables were littered with old copies of _The Sketch_ and dozens of letters. The room smelt heavily of brandy and the gentleman's gentleman sighed sadly as his sharp eyes observed the tears dried on Sir Anthony's cheeks, and the newspaper that lay across his broad chest. The photo showed Edith Crawley standing next to a strikingly handsome young man, and the headline proclaimed:

LADY EDITH CRAWLEY MARRIES GORDON HEIR

Had he read further the valet would have learned that the groom, Buddy Gordon, was American and that the couple was married from the Levinson estate in Newport. But at that moment he was more concerned with waking his master and putting him to rights.

XXXXX

_Was it ever real?_

_Did I ever love you this much?_

_Did we ever feel_

_So happy then?_

XXXXX

Sir Anthony Strallan stood in the reception hall at the hospital as the afternoon sun streamed through the open windows. A vibrant banner opposite him thanked him for supporting "Our Boys" and beneath it a group of young ladies were selling homemade goods and war bonds. He tried not to feel dismal as he usually did at social gatherings these days and reminded himself that he was there to do his part for the war effort and as a favor to his sister. He was just trying to calculate how soon he could politely leave, when in walked Edith Crawley. Edith Gordon, his mind corrected him, even as it was shouting thoughts of pure adoration. Edith was just as lovely as he remembered. Though it had been more than twenty years, his loving eyes saw no signs of age. She turned from her companion and caught his gaze, her exquisite eyes shining with unabashed pleasure. She crossed to him, her hands outstretched.

"Sir Anthony," she chirruped happily.

She clasped both hands around his good one and he brought them both to his lips.

She beamed at him. "I can't possibly tell you—" she gave a little sigh, "It's so _good_ to see you."

He grinned back at her, unable to tear his eyes from her face. Edith felt her heart give a little flip. Though thinner and greyer than when she had last seen him, Anthony was still strikingly handsome, and when he was gazing at her _that_ way…with utter adoration and affection, she found she still felt as heady as she had when she was twenty.

After a few moments, Anthony reluctantly broke the silence and his gaze. "Is your husband here with you?" he asked, irrationally hoping she would say no.

Edith's countenance drooped. "No, Buddy was wounded in France and died at Dunkirk."

Anthony frowned. "Oh, I'm so sorry. How thoughtless of me. Forgive me."

"You are forgiven," she smiled warmly.

"And how are you…getting along?" Anthony asked, his face lined with sincere concern.

Edith felt her heart melt at his solicitude. Even after all these years, it seemed Anthony was prepared to do anything to secure her happiness.

"Oh, I'm making it ok. I've got Claire, so I'm not all alone." She replied calmly. "I do miss Buddy, but…well ours was a rather…singular marriage."

"Ah," said Anthony courteously. "And you've been happy?" He looked at her earnestly.

"I haven't been unhappy." She paused, considering. "I have very few regrets," she asserted, evenly. "And you?"

She turned her face up to his, once again gazing deep into his eyes, which were full of meaning as he said softly, "Only one."

She blushed slightly and laid her hand on his arm, moving towards him. If they hadn't been in public she'd have kissed him, but instead she suggested that they take in some air.

The years fell away and the two talked just as openly and intimately as they had ever done, their age and the years between them allowing them to openly acknowledge their mutual affection without any awkwardness. She told him of Gregson, of the shock and anger of her family's discovery, and of her subsequent trip to the States. It was there, at her grandmother's, that she had fallen in with a group that included Buddy Gordon. Buddy was a year older than Edith, fashionable and handsome, with energy and humor and a kind heart. He was well-liked by all for his impeccable good grace and his stunning tenor voice. He came from a musical family, his parents having made their fortune crafting and selling "the best pianos in the country." Buddy and Edith had formed a warm and intimate bond, and while he lacked Anthony's poetic soul, he and Edith had shared an appreciation for the arts and a consciousness about the issues of the world at large. It had not been long before a wedding had been suggested.

Of course, Lord Grantham had balked at the idea of his daughter going from Lady Edith to a mere "Mrs.," but reminded of Gregson he relented, especially when Buddy agreed that he and Edith should return to England to live. What the family didn't know was that Edith and Buddy had entered into the marriage fully aware that neither could love the other fully. As Edith explained to Anthony, Buddy's tastes were… not in the petticoat line. The two had made an amicable agreement that both could engage in discreet liaisons. As husband and wife they had got on splendidly, were a hit in society, and had even managed to have a daughter. Buddy was everything respectful and thoughtful towards Edith, and often at her own insisting she came to know and like many of his lovers. Edith had herself engaged in some flirtations, but didn't quite have the heart to seek a relationship, when deep down she still loved Anthony. She threw herself into being a mother and a writer, and this suited her. When the news had come of Buddy's death she had mourned him as a beloved companion, and moved on.

Now here she was, face to face with the man who had so often filled her dreams, a man whose death would bring her infinite suffering—the only man who was ever _really_ worthy of being her husband. By the time the sun began to sink on the horizon, Edith's head had found its way to Anthony's shoulder, and her hand was firmly clasped in his own. He had even placed a few fond kisses on her crown. It all seemed so simply natural.

"You know darling, I'm quite hungry," Edith remarked.

"Well I just happen to have an excellent cook," he offered, and she hummed her agreement.

XXXXX

_Too many mornings_

_Wasted in pretending I reach for you._

_How many mornings_

_Are there still to come!_

_How much time can we hope that there will be?_

_Not much time, but it's time enough for me._

XXXXX

It was many hours later when Anthony Strallan took to his bed, but this time he was not alone. Edith was with him, kissing him fervently and pushing him back against the soft pillows, rolling off of his lap and onto her back, where he heeded the invitation and bent to taste the gentle curve of her neck, her hands exploring him as his mouth explored her. The passions of twenty plus years surged between them, each heart silently exulting their long-awaited consummation. Edith savored every moment—experiencing sensations she had never felt before, feeling her desire intensify as Anthony groaned and gasped in appreciation of her. Her married relations with Buddy had been affectionate, but not passionate, and Edith was finally awakening to the bliss of making love. This they did, not as young newlyweds, but with the deep conviction of years of devotion.

"Oh my darling, my only Edith—" Anthony grunted reverently as he rocked into her, nearing his climax, "_I love you_!"

Amid the ecstasies of Anthony's movements, Edith felt hot joyful tears slide from her eyes. "And I love you, Anthony," she gasped, letting her head fall back against the pillow as her body arced with yet another spasm of pleasure.

She lost all sense of thought then as Anthony urgently claimed the right to be called hers alone, and she gave herself up likewise to him, making up for years of heartache in a single moment of perfect loving passion.

When the morning light pushed its way into the room, Anthony was not sleeping alone. In fact, he was not even asleep. But neither he nor Edith lamented that fact.

XXXXX

A/N: If you are unfamiliar with Stephen Sondheim's _Follies_, the story I've drawn from goes something like this: Ben and Sally were once part of a foursome of friends connected to The Weismann Follies. Both men married the wrong half of the couple (Sally marries Buddy). Ben and Sally meet after years at a reunion for the company and find their passions undimmed. Thus they sing the lovely "Too Many Mornings," determined to correct their earlier follies.


	4. Check Mating Or Sixty-Four Squares of S

A/N: Oh dear, I think I've done it. Smut/PWP, whatever you want to call it. All I can say for it is that after two rather angst-ridden entries, this should be far more…erm…uplifting…. *blushes and hides under the bed*

Modern AU

Rating: M!

* * *

**Check Mating; Or Sixty-Four Squares of Seduction **

Edith stepped through Anthony's apartment door, which he was holding open for her, as he always did—the consummate gentleman. She was chattering animatedly, expounding the merits of the matinee they had just seen—a topic which had sustained them through dinner afterwards, and looked to be able to carry Edith into the wee hours. Anthony gazed affectionately at her as she rambled on, impassioned, shrugging off his coat, hanging hers, pouring out two glasses of wine, and steering them both into his living room. Soon the fireplace blazed with a cozy fire and the stereo emitted soft, jazzy strains.

"Soft lights and sweet music," Edith quoted lightly, as Anthony turned from his stereo to join her before the fire.

His awkward half smile flickered across his own face, but he did not accept the invitation by finishing the phrase '_and you in my arms_.' Edith took a sip of her wine to hide her disappointment at the gentle parry, one in a long line in response to her advances over the past month she and Anthony had been seeing one another. They'd met at a party thrown by a mutual friend and had ended up spending most of the evening locked in a corner together. After that, they hadn't been able to get enough of one another's company. Anthony had made the first tentative invitation, never dreaming that this lovely young woman would want to go around with a gentleman at least twenty years her senior, but she accepted and kept accepting—and he found he couldn't resist offering—he'd see that a local gallery was having an exhibit of post-impressionists and he'd be so sure that Edith would enjoy it, or that a new restaurant was opening—the kind that Edith would never have the wherewithal to enjoy herself and he couldn't resist treating her to it. Beyond that, he slowly allowed himself to acknowledge, he enjoyed these delights better with Edith by his side. Her lively and intelligent conversation, her passion and humor…and her vibrant, expressive eyes and lithe form didn't hurt either. But though he had admitted to himself that he was falling for her, he carefully steered the relationship away from such convivial waters.

This greatly frustrated Edith. While she admired Anthony for his old-fashioned chivalry, she felt certain that even ladies of old got ardent declarations or kisses to the hem of their garments. All Anthony would allow himself to kiss was her hand! She had discovered from her friend that Anthony had had quite a painful past with regards to love and so was terribly guarded with his feelings. It was a mark of great esteem that Anthony was spending as much time with her as he was. And despite her resolve to take it slow for his sake, Edith had quickly fallen for this considerate, dashing intellectual with the soul of a poet and the honor of a Lancelot. But there was more than that to him, Edith thought as she watched him set pieces on his chess board—he had devilish wit, and an energy and enthusiasm for his interests that made him so much younger than his forty plus years. He also had passion—she had witnessed it—brief glimpses that he tried so hard to hide and yet which his eloquent blue eyes always betrayed whenever she was near. And lately she had seen more than mere passion. She had every reason to believe that Anthony was falling for her just as deeply as she for him.

"Shall we resume hostilities?" Anthony grinned, having set the chess board.

Edith smiled. The night they met Anthony had challenged her to a chess battle, which had led to another, which had now led to an all-out war. There were jokes of enslavement for the loser of most games at the end of two months and so many of their evenings lately ended with a wine-driven match.

"By all means," Edith retorted jovially.

Half a bottle later, Anthony had won another match and was now leading by two. This was largely due to the fact that Edith was having trouble concentrating on her pieces of late. Anthony's intense, thoughtful gaze, coupled with the way his shirt fell apart to reveal a few teasing inches of his chest had Edith doing more daydreaming than strategizing. Tonight, the warmth of the fire and the generous amount of wine she had consumed, along with the glow of a perfect outing were making those daydreams more and more vivid and less and less dismissible. As Anthony set up for a second match, Edith finished off another glass of wine and made a mad decision. _Well Sir Anthony Strallan_, she smirked inwardly, _we'll just have to get your impulses to overrule your insecurities. We'll see how your strategy fairs in __this__ game._

Edith took the first move, and the game was begun. Within a few moves, Edith sacrificed her bishop. Gently, she shrugged out of her jacket. Anthony frowned at her obvious blunder, but carefully made his next move. Edith played defensively for a move or two before losing a pawn. She pulled her scarf from her neck and let it drop to the floor beside her chair. Whether Anthony was puzzled again at such sloppy gameplay, or whether he had noticed that without the protection of her scarf, Edith's dress scooped to reveal quite a lot of her bosom, she couldn't guess, but he faltered a move or two later and Edith had his rook.

"My first captive," Edith teased, smiling coyly and looking deeply at her opponent.

Anthony blushed slightly and took a gulp of his wine.

"I think that fire's starting to do its job," he uttered, pulling his sweater over his head. As Edith made her next move he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, making him look even more delectable, Edith thought.

A few moves later, down went Edith's rook. She excused herself to the bathroom and wriggled out of her tights, stuffing them into her purse. She re-touched her perfume, gave her hair a tousle, and rejoined the game. If Anthony noticed her slender, bare legs curled in the chair before her, he made no sign, he simply glared down at the board, taking several minutes to decide his next move. Edith filled these moments scrutinizing the line of his jaw, imagining the power behind a kiss from that wide mouth, watching his sandy hair fall across his forehead and wondering how it would feel to run a hand through it. Finally it was her turn again. Then his. Then hers. In a few deft movements she lost two pawns, and her knight. She waited, capturing Anthony's bishop, not quite brave enough to ask him to remove his shirt as her mind was urging her to do. She contented herself with imagining him shirtless as she was able to capture one of his knights. But she had left her own vulnerable and in a moment it was his. He fingered the piece for a moment, and Edith found she couldn't help imagining his long fingers performing other, more sensual offices. And so she excused herself to the bathroom again.

As this point there was not much more to be removed, and Edith hesitated a moment. _Really, don't you think that's a BIT obvious?_ She chided herself. _Yes, but clearly obvious it what it'll have to be_, she argued back to herself. _He hasn't caught on yet. And what I have to do is take him off guard or it'll never happen._ And resolutely, Edith removed her last items, cramming them as best she could into her already full purse. Then she took a shaky breath and left the bathroom.

As she examined the board, presumably considering her next chess move, but actually considering moves of an entirely different manner, Anthony was feeling rather dizzy. He had noticed Edith's vanishing wardrobe, but had told himself it was merely the wine and the fire making her warm. He'd been fighting his mind and body's all too natural responses to Edith's sensual demeanor and creamy skin; employing a fierce tenacity to keep his eyes on the board and not on his opponent's soft thighs and bosom, which her fashionable mini-dress were doing little to hide. Yet now it was harder than ever to ignore the thudding pulse that screamed to his temples and was arresting all thought. As Edith had passed before the fire he'd been sure that she was not wearing anything under her knit dress. A quick glance over his wine glass confirmed that her nipples were indeed unhindered by a bra. This realization made him choke a little. He coughed himself free of his wine as Edith smiled triumphantly, leaning back with his other bishop in her hand.

As he leaned over the board, Anthony barely saw his pieces. He couldn't keep Edith's figure from his mind. He flicked his eyes to her purse, and sure enough there was a small loop of lace sticking out which must have been her underwear. He was suddenly aware that he was hardly breathing, and that his loins were throbbing. By God she _was_ seducing him! She actually desired him! And God! He wanted her. Everything in him was urging him to accept her invitation and break weeks of careful chastity and forbidden longing and take her right there before the fire.

He looked across at her. Her eyes were smoldering and her lips were set in a loose, alluring smile.

He stood quickly, sending chess board and pieces flying.

Before she knew it, Edith was being kissed, fervently and ravenously kissed. She responded with her own hunger, clutching Anthony to her as his mouth moved to devour her neck and bosom. Then, with a sudden jerk he stopped, pulling away as if in pain.

"Anthony, what is it?" Edith whispered, meeting his stricken look.

"Edith—It has been years since I—I've tried to avoid this, but…I need to know…Edith, I want nothing more than to share this night with you…You understand, I haven't felt this way for a long time. I-I think I'm in love with you," he breathed at last. "And…" he began anxiously, but Edith finished for him. "You want to know if I feel the same," she concluded gently.

He gave one of his half smiles, but his eyes bored into her, wide and sad and terrified.

"I do, Anthony," she answered earnestly. "I've loved you for weeks, but you silly man, you haven't let me show it! Why else do you think I've been playing strip chess all evening?" She laughed.

He gave a relieved laugh. "Oh my darling! I can't believe those sweet words are true! How could you ever want an old codger like me?"

He kissed her again.

"Believe them," she insisted, moving her mouth close to his ear and changing her tone. "And as for wanting you…I'll strive to make you understand the…._depths_ of my desire over the course of the evening," she cooed, pressing her body close against him and curling her lips around his lobe.

"Edith," he exhaled, as the desire rushed over him once more. The couched was secured, and Anthony's long fingers were soon tracing the line of Edith's thigh, sliding onto her warm belly and flicking playfully at the wet opening between her legs. He felt yet another thrill of lust course through him as she moaned and wriggled in pleasure at his touch, wanting nothing more than to show this woman he loved more than life the ultimate heights of bliss. Clothes were soon discarded and just when Anthony thought he might suffocate from his own desire, Edith raised her knees to his hips and he pushed into her.

And God! It felt wonderful! To be once again locked in the throes of the most intimate passion with a woman—and not just any woman, this proud, independent, clever, and infinitely beautiful woman, who was at that moment looking even more gorgeous with her large eyes looking pleadingly into his, and her slim waist rising to meet his thrusts, opening herself completely to him, even as he relinquished his very soul to her. His heard swelled and soared. How he loved her! And how he loved making love to her and how he felt as though he could go on forever rolling into her, pushing himself deeper into her and kissing every perfumed contour, his ears forever ringing with her ecstatic whimpers. But even as he thought it he knew the end was near, and it came—bursting forth in a blissful rush of sensation.

Moments later, nuzzling Edith's clammy neck and tracing careless trails across her breast with one lazy hand, he laughed.

"What?" Edith asked.

"Our game. Who won?"

Edith surveyed the scattered pieces.

"Shall we call it a draw?"

"Perhaps we can defer to hand to hand combat," he suggested, shifting against her and placing an encouraging kiss on her neck.

"A most prudent suggestion," she smiled wickedly. In a moment she had climbed on top of him, and leaned down for a powerful kiss.

Then she slowly began trailing kisses over his chest and neck and ears, sliding her hand down to him, her own arousal growing as he stiffened in her hand, groaning appreciatively at her ministrations.

He grin had grown even more devilish as she murmured "Do you yield?"

"Never," he growled, seizing her mouth in a fiery kiss.

And as the game progressed, it would have been hard for any arbiter to tell just who had whom in check.

* * *

A/N: Inspired by the fabulous Charles Dana Gibson illustration captioned "The Greatest Game In the World: His Move."

P.S. I'm a terrible chess player. The most time I spend with chess is listening to the cast album. So if I got anything wrong, let me know and I'll correct my ignorance.

**Thanks again for all support! You are absolutely lovely, all of you! :D**


	5. Confidences

For Baron Munchausen, who suggested that these two characters should have a chat.

And for Lady Strallan, as a belated birthday present.

Crossover

* * *

**Confidences**

Sir Anthony Strallan stared blankly out the window as the Yorkshire countryside blurred past. He felt the familiar rumble of the train beneath him, and wished vainly that it would lull him to sleep. But he knew it would not. Finally alone in a private compartment, Anthony surrendered to the despair that had been threatening to batter a hole in his chest been since the awful moment only hours before when he'd whispered his final farewell to Edith.

He pressed his eyes into his palm, feeling the tears hot against his cheeks, his mouth gagging out silent, bitter, sobs. _Oh Edith_, his mind wailed, as he remembered her standing there at the altar; the joyful, innocent light of hope and excitement and love and trust that had shone through her eyes and skin and which had even seemed to emanate from the very tips of her hair and fingers. _Edith_ his mind repeated dumbly as his gut wrenched afresh as he saw again all that light drain from her being to be replaced by confusion and betrayal and heartbreak. Yet she would recover and be better for it. She'd be guarded from fools like himself and the pain of foolish attachment. She'd find someone practical and young, someone who made her happier than she'd ever fancied herself with him. And yet he couldn't stop a nagging voice that urged him to go to her, to apologize and try to make amends. To gather her up in his arm and never let her go ever again. _Oh Edith, Edith, Edith…_

* * *

In a daze Anthony pushed open the door to his London house. A footman hurried to grab his luggage from the cab, packed for a honeymoon, and now coming with Anthony as he fled to London—somewhere he had memories that didn't include Edith. The house hadn't been expecting him, though he knew his butler had telephoned this morning to get some of the staff in and to open his rooms. Still, he took pity on his cook and decided to have dinner at his club.

Not that he felt much like eating. But he slumped down at a corner table in a chair which faced the now stormy London streets. He ordered a brandy and his usual dinner and sat, vaguely noting that the weather so perfectly fit his mood.

Around him, the tables filled with his fellow club members, chatting calmly as they took their dinners. Had Anthony not been consumed in replaying every blissful moment of the last few months with Edith and letting himself sink into painful dreams of their future together, he might have noticed that soon there appeared to be no seats open other than at the table he himself was occupying. He might also have heard the first inquiry by the gentleman who now stood, looking reservedly but quizzically at him. Anthony blinked, something in the back of his swollen mind registering faint recognition.

"Forgive me," he muttered wearily. "I'm not quite sure…"

"I simply wondered if you would mind if I use the other half of your table to take my dinner," The speaker gestured a long, languid arm at the crowded room.

Anthony nodded permission. "I'm afraid I'm not up to company," he said warningly.

"Understood," his now companion replied, lowering himself into the chair opposite.

The waiter came and took gentleman's order, and Anthony found himself studying his dinner guest in spite of himself. He was a tall, lean man with a powerful brow and jaw which seemed to find their natural state in a resolute scowl. He was an immensely correct man, though not unhandsome, and, Anthony wagered, at least ten years his junior.

The men sat in silence for a few moments, but then Anthony's good manners overcame his anguish.

"I'm sorry to have been so brusque. Hasn't been a particularly good day," he offered lamely. Again his mind flashed messages of recognition. But he couldn't quite place the man.

"No apologies required. I interrupted your private dinner. And I would not have done so if I could have avoided it," the younger man remarked.

Another short silence. This time it was the gentleman who spoke.

"Grim weather," he observed, waving a hand at the window, through which the streetlamps were greatly blurred by the downpour.

Anthony grunted quietly in assent and sipped his brandy.

"Just arrived in London?" he asked politely.

His companion nodded. "Yes, on furlough."

Anthony's brain began to process—a military figure…had they served together during the war? Had they met at some officer's gathering? Anthony surveyed him over the top of his glass as he took another sip. Perhaps he wasn't army…navy? Somehow navy seemed to suit the man…and even as the thought struck him his mind retrieved the information for which it had been scrambling. His blue eyes widened slightly as he realized he was sharing dinner with the youngest admiral in the Royal Navy, a man whose impressive career had exploded into the newspapers during the war—James Norrington.

Before Anthony could make any comment, the waiter came and laid out the Admiral's supper. When he had gone, Anthony slipped into silence as the man ate. Then when he too was armed with a glass of brandy, Anthony spoke.

"Forgive me, Admiral, for not recognizing you at once. I must say, your record does you credit, sir."

The Admiral let his correct face break into a small smile. "_Your_ record is not without its laurels, Major," he returned, a hint of levity penetrating his even tone.

Anthony gave a weak smile and put out his good hand, which the Admiral clasped in a firm handshake. As Anthony's arm returned to his brandy, Admiral Norrington's eyes lighted upon his lame one.

"Damn shame, that," he commented, nodding at the limp limb.

Anthony grimaced. "More than you know," he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Norrington raised his eyebrows.

"Does it still give you any trouble?" he asked.

Anthony shook his head.

"It doesn't hurt. Can't feel a thing. But of course it's useless. And it's not particularly attractive."

"Mine still aches like the dickens sometimes and it has certainly made dining more interesting, but at least I can hide it." He touched his stomach.

Anthony's eyes widened noticeably this time.

"If that's where it got you, you're bloody lucky."

"I suppose I am," the younger man agreed, grimly. But his eyes suddenly went hollow, and Anthony recognized the all-too-familiar guilt of those men who had survived the war while their companions had not. He felt the same hollow sensation begin to creep into his own stomach, but he pushed it away.

"Well, you're here, and you're still young, which I can tell you is a great advantage," Anthony said bracingly.

The Admiral pulled himself back from his gloomy reminisces, Anthony's meaning not wholly lost upon him.

"Listen old chap, you're not in your dotage yet," he said kindly.

Anthony smiled sadly.

"Oh but I am old, and broken, and a terrible fool," he nearly groaned.

And as Norrington watched his companion's face stretched with misery. His powerfully expressive eyes flooded with despair and even a few tears.

Anthony sighed, an utterly defeated sound.

"Forgive me," he mumbled. "I told you I was not going to be good company."

To his surprise, the admiral didn't seem at all offended. In fact, Norrington felt an unexplainable camaraderie with the man.

"Have you ever happened to meet the Turners?" he inquired, conversationally.

He didn't wait for Anthony's response. In a lower voice he continued.

"I was once to marry Mrs. Turner. Elizabeth Swann as she was then."

"What happened?"

He gave a bitter smile.

"She decided that Turner was the man for the job instead."

Anthony nodded sadly.

"Of course he was closer to her age, terribly impulsive…" He frowned. "And better-looking, of course," he added dryly.

Anthony sighed.

"I suppose you read about my engagement?" his voice was small and tired.

"Lady Edith Crawley, wasn't it?"

Anthony nodded sadly.

"She'll likely end with one of your Turners. At least, I hope so. Better than being stuck with me for the rest of her life."

"I'm sorry, old fellow, truly," Norrington said kindly.

"Do you still love her?" Anthony choked, as the waves of heartache broke upon him once more.

Norrington considered for a moment. "Yes," he admitted, his voice just above a whisper, but filled with the same misery and longing that Anthony felt.

They sat in companionable silence then, not needing to speak, completely empathetic in their grief and regret and self-doubt.

* * *

The office door windowpane rattled under a brisk set of knuckles. Edith looked up from her notepad, where she had been scribbling a few reminders for herself. On the other side of the door stood a bright-eyed and (it was undeniable) beautiful woman, whose wide, lovely mouth smiled apologetically at her. Edith ushered her in with a single hand, and in she marched, standing resolutely before Edith's desk.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, Miss Crawley. I'm Mrs. Turner."

"Yes, I was to meet with your husband this afternoon," Edith shook the woman's hand.

"I regret that my husband has been called away on sudden business. I hoped that I might be able to give you the information you require for your piece."

"Oh, but this is even better! You were on the _Titania_, were you not? If you're willing, I'd be happy to hear _your_ story," Edith's face was ablaze with the thrill of a good story.

Her enthusiasm seemed to catch her companion, who readily agreed.

Twenty minutes later, the two women found themselves sharing tea at one of Edith's favorite diners, talking animatedly about Mrs. Turner's experience during the war. Edith found she instantly warmed to her companion, and was not at all sorry Mr. Turner had failed to arrive.

Captain Turner, about whom the article was originally to be, had begun as a ship's engineer but had risen to become the captain of a premier passenger liner, the _Titania_, just before the war began. During the war, the _Titania_ had been converted to a supply and hospital ship, and the public had been shocked to read about its attack by German forces in 1916. Luckily, Captain Turner's ship had been rescued by the nearby Royal Navy cruiser _HMS Interceptor_, under the command of the brilliant Admiral Norrington. The battle had been much heralded as one of the most heroic of the war, and evidence of Britain's enduring naval superiority. In 1915, Mrs. Turner had followed her husband to be a nurse on the _Titania_. But as Edith was now discovering, her untold story was even more fascinating than she had first supposed.

"You went over to the _Interceptor_?" Edith expostulated. "In the middle of the battle?"

Mrs. Turner blushed a little.

"I know it sounds terribly foolish. And in retrospect it was. But there were those who needed care, and I felt awful just sitting there."

"But surely there were plenty of victims on your own ship."

"Yes," she admitted. "Miss Crawley, I…I hope you won't print this, but it was James I was worried about-Admiral Norrington," she explained. "You see, I've known him for years…we're good friends. And I heard he'd been wounded and well…"

"I understand," Edith assured her. "I had heard you were acquainted with the Admiral. Tell me; is he as handsome as he looks in his photographs?"

Mrs. Turner laughed.

"I suppose he is. I once agreed to marry him, so I wasn't impervious to his charms. -off the record," she added hastily.

"Don't worry, I'm only interested in your actions during battle. I don't believe in using the newspaper to expose personal information."

"Yes, I can understand that you wouldn't."

Mrs. Turner had read, with the rest of society, about Lady Mary Crawley's infamous scandal with the Turkish ambassador before the war.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, what happened with you and Admiral Norrington?" _Did he leave you at the altar?_ Edith's mind sniped unbidden as the old wound gave a dull sting.

"Oh, we weren't quite right for one another. We never really knew one another. And I was meant to be with my William," she said simply.

"What made you decide to break your engagement?" Edith's eyes swelled large and imploring. Though Mrs. Turner was no older than she herself, she was asking the married woman for wisdom. She needed something to help her with the heartache and confusion she still felt about Anthony, all these months later.

"Well, it wasn't an easy decision. William wasn't…free when I became engaged to James. Like I said, we're old friends, and I knew he cared for me a great deal. Loved me, I think, and I hoped he could make me happy. And I figured, if I couldn't have William…But then I just couldn't give up on William. I knew I loved him and that I wouldn't be happy with anyone else. And…I'd never told him. I'd never tried to fight for him. It wasn't easy, but that's what I eventually did. And we had to work some things through, but in the end, I'm glad I didn't give up on him." Her smile was slightly moist. "That's quite a speech, I know. Sorry for rambling."

"No, don't apologize. You've in fact given me a great deal to think about."

"You've got someone you can't give up on as well?" Mrs. Turner asked gently.

Edith nodded.

"But I have my James as well."

Didn't Michael want to marry her? Shouldn't she try for happiness where she could find it? So often she had come close to contacting Anthony, but would he even listen? Would he want her anymore? Should she throw away a chance at happiness on a fool's hope?

Mrs. Turner watched these thoughts cross Edith's face.

"If you want my advice, fight for your William. Anything worth having is worth fighting for."

* * *

A smart young butler showed Edith into the drawing room of Anthony's townhouse. It seemed that any of Anthony's residences must be crammed with books, and this room was no exception. As eh waited, Edith steadied her nerves by perusing spines, willing her breathing to become normal. She reminded herself that she had come here to _fight_, and that she wasn't leaving until she and Anthony had the whole truth from one another.

She heard a footfall in the doorway and turned.

And there was Anthony, his face a mix of guilt and adoration.

"Hello," he managed weakly, giving a sad half-smile.

"Hello," Edith returned, and took a deep breath.


End file.
